


Santushti

by sherlockfan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cannabis use, Character Study, M/M, Relationship Study, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-03 07:39:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10239230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockfan/pseuds/sherlockfan
Summary: ---"The poor man who desires nothing owns the world."Santushti—a.k.a. contentment.A slice of life just after the events of Moksha. And a bridge between Moksha and its planned sequel. Set in the Moksha world. So it won’t make sense unless you read Moksha first. Enjoy :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written with deep love and joy-- for Sherlock, the characters of Sherlock and the characters of the Moksha world.  
> Enjoy :)

** INDIA **

 

Hrishikesh smiled as he listened to the increasingly frustrated thrums and twangs of the violin coming in short irritable bursts from the balcony. He gathered his laptop and writing pad and moved outside to join Sherlock.

It was brisk outside; the early morning mountain air was crisp, a phantom haze covered the Himalayan peaks in the distance, the aroma of damp earth complimented the fragrance of the abundance of jasmine flowers in the garden as it rose up to the second floor balcony.

Sherlock stood hunched over his music notes on the table, held in place by a bronze Ganesh statue, long finger tapping on the fluttering paper, scowling.

His eyes flicked up at Kesh briefly and then back at the paper.

Kesh seated himself on the large divan, adjusted his back comfortably and continued to do his work.

“It’s not coming together the way I’d hoped,” Sherlock’s tone was petulant as he flung himself on the lounge chair opposite Kesh, long legs sprawled in front. “I’m working on a song for Meera’s baby. It’s proving to be elusive.”

Kesh’s tone was mild. “I don’t know the first thing about music, Sherlock. But I know you will do it.”

“Hmm…..” Sherlock tipped his head back to look up at the cloudy grey sky.

“I’m off to visit Saavarni village this morning with Vedant. Uddhav goes there every month to get feedback on how things are going, ask whether the farmers need any help.” Kesh looked up, eyes smiling. “But, both Meera and he are busy today. You do remember we’ve to go for dinner to Shanker’s house at Chambal tonight? They’ve gone there to help out. So I thought I’d go to Saavarni this morning in his place.”

Sherlock glared at the violin for a few moments, still preoccupied. Then as Kesh’s words registered, “What is happening with Meera’s delivery? Isn’t she overdue?”

Kesh nodded, “Hmm…… eight days! The doctor is planning to induce labour tomorrow.”

After a few moments, Kesh added, “If you like, instead of going in the car with Vedant, you and I could walk to Saavarni instead. It will take an hour each way through the back trails. There are a few streams we’ll have to cross and a little bit of hiking. But it’ll be fun. And physical exertion always stimulates thought.” He smiled. “And afterwards, I’ll get Vedant to give you one of his body-melting massages. It is truly an experience. Perhaps that elusive tune will allow itself to be captured?”

Sherlock’s look was suggestive as he dropped his voice an octave.

“If I wanted physical exertion and body-melting experiences—why then, Kesh, I could just shag you senseless.”

The smile on Kesh’s face was shy as he looked down and stared at his laptop, a faint blush creeping into the tips of his ears. Sherlock laughed. _Damn. It has been over a year, Kesh. I’ve had you in every conceivable way devised by man! And you still blush. My Kesh……_

A car roared up into the driveway just as he was about to tease Kesh some more. At the honk, he went up to the balcony and peered below. A rotund Vedant stood looking up with a huge smile, “Sherlock Sir! I’m here!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Yes, Vedant! I can see that!”

“Sir, can you tell Hrishikesh bhaiyya we can leave now?”

Sherlock shook his head, “Kesh and I are going to walk up to Saavarni. And Vedant? I want you to come back at……” He turned to Kesh, eyebrow raised in inquiry. Kesh replied _sotto-voce_ , “Noon.” Sherlock nodded.

He turned back, his forearms digging into the cool stone railing as he leaned forward, one foot arched back and drawing a lazy arc on the marble floor. He yelled down to the waiting Vedant, “I want you to come at noon. You are to give Kesh and I a massage.”

Vedant grinned even more broadly. “Ha, Sherlock Sir! You’ll be so happy with my massage. It is world famous.”

Sherlock laughed, good humour restored. “But of course it is! I’ve read about it in _The Guardian_!”

“What?”

He shook his head, “Never mind. Go now and come back around noon.”

 

 

                                                                ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 

** LONDON **

****

John looked at the fluorescent green numbers on the bedside clock with bleary eyes, eyelids feeling like they had stones hanging over them. 4.53 AM. _Fucking hell!_

It was still dark outside. The only light in the room was from the eerie green glow of the digital clock and the thin sliver of yellow light under the closed bathroom door.  Sounds of retching. A toilet flushed. Silence. He passed a weary hand over his eyes and sighed. Bones creaked as he sat up. _Four fucking days._ Four days now since Mary had woken up at some unholy hour of the blessed morning, vomiting. _This never happened with Rosa. Goddamit!_

He stood up. Scratching his thigh through his pajama’s, he knocked on the bathroom door.

“Alright in there?”

More sounds of retching. John frowned as he turned the doorknob.

“No, I’m not bloody alright!” Mary mumbled, her head bowed over the toilet bowl, face covered with sweat.

“Jesus!” John murmured as he grabbed a towel from the hook and bent down to wipe her face, his hand gentle as he swept the sweat soaked hair back.

He looked up as a loud wail came from the other room.

“Go,” Mary waved him away as her face contorted, a trembling hand covering her mouth as she turned to the toilet bowl again and vomited. John looked torn as the volume of Rosa’s cries increased. The smell of vomit was off-putting to say the least but he didn’t want to leave Mary alone either. _Damn!_

“Where does she get the energy for this every damned morning?” He flung the towel on Mary’s lap as he left.

It was an hour and a half later that he finally picked up the morning paper from the porch and carried it to the kitchen. The morning had flown by as usual. Heating milk, feeding Rosa. Bathing her as she giggled and played with soap bubbles. Showering himself. Cooking breakfast and making tea. Mary had finally joined them, looking washed out and exhausted. Welcome steam rose from the tea in his RAMC mug as he took his first sip. Rosa sat tucked into her high chair and fussing over her food as Mary leaned across and fed her. He opened the newspaper.

“You’re going to have to drop Rosa today,” Mary said as she wiped Rosa’s face.

“Hmm…..” he hummed irritably.

“Maybe I should take the day off?”

“What?” he folded the newspaper reluctantly. “You can’t! They’ll dock your pay. You’ve already had too much time off.”

Mary’s face took on a familiar stubborn look.

“Look at me, John! Do I _look_ like I can work today?” She groaned as she buried her face in her hands. “I feel like shit.”

John looked at her as he sipped his tea. She looked tired. Pale. Hair mussed up. Dark circles under her eyes. He put his cup down.

“Suit yourself. They’re looking for an excuse to cut staff anyways. If only you’d allow us to use the money you’ve put away…..” his voice trailed off.

“No!” Mary hissed. She flung the napkin down. “I’m sick of having this conversation with you.” She stood up and started picking up the dishes. “I will NOT let that money be frittered away, it’s been put aside for the kid’s education when they grow up. You and I can work right now.”

“Yeah? Well, I for one am sick of it! Same old bloody patients, same old staff. There’s nothing new. Bloody tedious!”

Slamming the dishes in the sink, Mary turned to him. “What’s the alternative, John?”

John stared at his wife for a few moments and then let out a long sigh. They’d been bickering constantly since returning from India. Was it frustration at coming back to their ‘happy’ but mediocre suburban existence or envy at what they’d seen in India? Envy at two men in love, so obviously suited to be together? Who knew? But this is the life he’d chosen and he’d be happy with it if it killed him!

He stood up. Coming closer he slipped his arms around her waist. “Let’s not fight, okay?” After a moment, her arms came up to return the embrace. “I’m just so tired. I don’t feel right.” She rubbed her face on his chest. “All this vomiting. Tired all the time. No sleep. Looking after Rosa. Bloody work.” She sighed.

“Maybe it’s twins,” John teased softly.

Mary snorted, “Bite your tongue, husband!”

John laughed. “Seriously though, what if…..” His hands came up to cup her breast and squeezed softly.

Mary swatted his hand away. “We should have had the scan in India.”

“No way! I don’t think the doctors there know what they’re doing!”

“Oh yeah! So the population of over a billion just magically appeared?” Mary scoffed. “Never mind, we’ll know on Monday. I’ve made an appointment with Dr Burrell at 11 am.”

“Another day off! We can’t keep doing this,” John stepped away and glanced at his watch. Rosa’s day care was three blocks away. After dropping her, he’d need to walk some more to his bus stop. “Well, I’d better get going. You’re not going? Seriously?”

She shook her head as she sat down. “I don’t feel right,” she repeated, looking morose.

He picked up his keys and bent to get Rosa out of her high chair. “I’ll get some Maxolon on the way back”

It was hour later that he stood at the bus-stop, staring into the distance.

_Wonder what he’s doing right now? Fuck, I hope Meera delivers soon and he comes back. He belongs in London! It is not the same without him. Who’d have thought that Sherlock would ever settle into a relationship? With a man! I mean, Kesh is nice, I suppose. And Sherlock is just so…. Extraordinary. Beautiful. Who can blame Kesh? Look at that fucking Adler woman! She was gagging for it, flashing her naked tits and pussy at him, asking him to have ‘dinner’! Jim bloody Moriarty! Couldn’t leave Sherlock alone! And poor Molly! Desperate for even one look from him! Never imagined that Sherlock was capable of love. Mr Spock, himself! Cold calculating machine. Seriously, who knew he had a heart? And could commit himself to anyone! After he had shunned all of these people. Kesh is a good man, I suppose. But…._

He climbed into the bus, staring blankly at other fellow-travellers as his stream of consciousness continued. _Mary… Maybe we should have blood tests done on Monday too? Wonder what the scan will show? Twins? Fucking hope not…. I love Rosa! I’ll love this one too! But hell! Should have used better protection. Who knew a child generated this much work? Sherlock would call this TEDIOUS. Can’t imagine him with smelly nappies! Will probably run tests on it or something! Can’t imagine him holding Kesh’s head as he vomits. So fucking posh all the bloody time. Posh boy…… How DOES he hold Kesh? Fuck! Wonder what it must look like? Sherlock fucking some dude in the arse. Didn’t even know that he liked that! Or does Kesh fuck him? Do they take turns?_

He tried to clear the disturbing lewd images that popped unbidden into his head. It had been an ongoing battle, here in the deep recesses of his head. _Stop it. Think about the patients you’ll see today. Yes. That’s safe. Yes. Mrs Chapman, need to get her admitted, her haemoglobin was just 65. Evans… ah, good old Evans, his PSA is down, he’ll be happy with that. Betty. Fuck, if I’ve to listen to her whine about her anxiety at everything under the sun one more time, I swear to God……._

His eyes fell on the woman sitting across him. Pretty. Red hair, red lips, pretty dress. Smiling invitingly at him. _Yeah, still got it._ He combed his hair back, smiling to himself and came away with a flower stuck in his hair behind his ear. _Fucking hell, how long has this been there?_ He smiled back at her self-consciously. She grinned and looked out of the window. _Down boy, stop thinking you’re a stud. Used to be once upon a time. Hard enough to get a leg over with the wife now….. This is what you are now! A sweet doting dad…._ He sighed as he stared out at the morning traffic streaming past. _That case Greg texted me about…. Yeah, definitely an eight. Can’t imagine Sherlock passing that up. Can’t wait to see his eyes light up. Can’t wait for him to come back.….._

The bus rolled on.

 

To be contd.....


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reminder- "Bhaiyya" is Brother in my language and a polite way to refer to men.

** INDIA **

****

Sherlock moaned, a decadent hum of contentment. “Please. More…….. Hmm. That’s it. That’s perfect. Harder. Just there…… Dig deeper…..” He arched his head back and looked up at the sky with dreamy eyes as he hissed, “Fuck. God, _yes_ …….”

The sole of his right foot rested on Vedant’s chest, his long toes digging into the flesh as Vedant leaned forward and massaged his legs. Pudgy hands improbably seemed to be writing symphonies as the fingers moved from the crease of Sherlock’s groin, down his thighs and back up again in hypnotic circular motions.

Kesh sat on the lounge wearing only a towel around his torso, oil-slicked body gleaming in the afternoon sun. He pulled a pillow on his lap trying to hide his growing arousal as he stared. At Sherlock’s naked legs, the snug fit of the black boxers around tanned thighs, the faint outline of his cock in the bulge over which the fabric stretched, the skin shining as the oil was rubbed in. Creamy skin, now tanned in the Indian sun. A smattering of hair on the generously freckled chest, pebbled dusky nipples moving with each breath. _Stop it, have some control. Think about something else. He’s saying such things to tease you. Oh, God………_

Sherlock’s eyes drifted knowingly to meet Kesh’s, his lips curled up in a sly smile.

“I’d like to take you to London with me, Vedant. You can give me massages twice a day. Kesh can watch.”

Vedant gesticulated excitedly with one hand, oblivious to the sub-text. “Sir, if I didn’t have a family, I’d never let you and Hrishikesh bhaiya out of my sight. I’d come and stay with you in foreign. Cook for you. Give you massages. Iron your clothes. Clean your house.”

“Hmm…..” Sherlock hummed.

Kesh cleared his throat, “Perhaps that is enough, Vedant? We would like to rest now.”

Vedant nodded agreeably as he stood up, gently depositing Sherlock’s leg on the soft daybed. He started to fold the towels and tidy things.

“Bhaiya, what time should I come to pick both of you?”

“Five? I’d like to be there by six in the evening. I don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”

Vedant nodded, “I’ll pick you and Sherlock Sir up at five then.” He did Namaste to both Sherlock and Kesh as he left.

Putting the pillow aside, Kesh lay down on his tummy, chin propped on his interlaced fingers. Sherlock appeared lost in his own world as he lay gazing up at the sky. His body gleamed from the massage as it lay sprawled on the pristine white sheets. One hand moved up languidly, long fingers seemed to be writing something in the air. A flick of a wrist as he dismissed what he had written. The fingers came down. Pads of his index and middle finger traced his lips. Lazy reflective movements over the plump lower lip and then the upper lip, dipping into the cupid’s bow, moving from one edge to another. To and fro. To and fro. Dreamy aquamarine eyes followed the slow moving cumulus cloud overhead. Traced the movement of the swaying branches of the huge banyan tree to his left. The fingers halted mid-motion, the hand went up again to trace another note in the sky.

Kesh watched. Hypnotised. Aroused.

This was his favourite way to pass time. Watching Sherlock be himself. He could watch him for the rest of eternity, given a choice. _Is there anyone else in the world more fortunate than me? I can walk up there and kiss him, hold him, make love to him……_ His eyes moved from the mesmerizing fingers down the recumbent form. His mouth flooded.

Keen blue eyes flicked towards Kesh suddenly. Sherlock smirked.

“I’m trying to compose.”

“I can wait.”

Sherlock pouted. “I feel like a puddle, Kesh. Like my bones have melted.” Kesh chuckled.

An eyebrow rose suggestively, “Perhaps you can help?”

“How?”

Sherlock crooked a proprietary finger, “Come here.”

Kesh stood up, gaze locked with Sherlock’s. He removed the towel and flung it over the lounge as he neared.

Pupils widened as Sherlock bent both his legs and spread them.

“Come here,” he repeated, voice suddenly husky.

Kesh braced both hands on either side of Sherlock’s head as he lowered himself, his legs scissored by Sherlock’s.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured softly as he brought their lips together, his erection rubbing against Sherlock’s crotch. “I could look at you all day.” Lips parted as they kissed, leisurely long sloppy kisses as though they had all the time in the world. “I don’t _want_ to do anything but look at you all day.” Their bodies slipped and squelched, the oil making everything smooth and slithery.

“Love you,” Sherlock murmured in Kesh’s ear as Kesh bent down to nibble down his neck. He inhaled deeply searching for the familiar sandalwood smell. An irritated huff at the massage oil masking what he’d come to expect each time he held Kesh in his arms.

He pushed down gently on a shoulder, “Go on, then. I could hear you drooling from over here.”

Kesh slid down slowly, pausing to suck on a pebbled nipple. Sherlock held his head close as he tilted his head back and moaned with pleasure, the vibrant blue of the sky reflected in his wistful eyes. Kesh moved lower and hooked his fingers in the waistband of Sherlock’s boxers. Sherlock gave a loud sigh as he raised his hips. “I feel lazy. This is the last time I help you today.”

Kesh bit the inside of a thigh, “Then lie back and enjoy. Compose.”

He got to work, nuzzling against the half-hard cock. Picked up a testicle in the limp sac and swirled it in his mouth, sucking gently. One then another and then back to the first one. Rolling each one, licking the sac, inhaling deeply.

Sherlock moaned softly as Kesh took his now hard length in his mouth. One hand moved down to gently tangle with long locks, “Slowly. Don’t distract me.”

Kesh took his time, savouring, sucking. Shallow teasing movements. Long deep ones. Gentle sucks. Tender nibbles. Broad wet licks over the slit, just like Sherlock liked. Mouth moved down to engulf as much of the long thick length as he could manage. Swallowed while he held Sherlock deep into the back of his mouth, a movement that usually drove Sherlock crazy. Thumbs caressed the smooth inner thighs in soothing motions. Moments passed. Sherlock composed, hands moving against the blue sky as though conducting a symphony. An occasional moan. Brow furrowing, face expressive. A sigh.

“I feel like a ruddy Sultan. Being serviced by his subject.”

Kesh choked as he tried to swallow his laugh.

Sherlock pulled on his hair roughly, his chuckle deep, “Kesh! Don’t laugh while you have my cock in your mouth!”

Kesh nuzzled against Sherlock’s groin, “I’m trying my best, my Sultan.”

Sherlock snorted. He twisted to grab hold of the bottle of massage oil and tossed it to Kesh.

“Fingers,” was the brief order. Kesh rubbed his nose against the saliva slick hardness as he squeezed the oil on his fingers. The heel of a foot came up and nudged Kesh’s naked arse. An imperious voice. “Get to work. Mouth and fingers.”

With exquisite tenderness, Kesh started to prepare Sherlock even as his mouth pleasured him.

“You’re so relaxed,” he murmured against the warm skin.

“Hmm…..” Sherlock hummed absently, barely registering the fingers slicking him up and opening him. Lost in his head as the melody took shape. Slowly, Kesh scissored his fingers, careful not to stimulate too much yet. His head bobbed up and down in tandem with the gentle preparation.

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened, the movement of his hands got faster as the music wrote itself in the sky—born of love, born of joy, born of contentment.

“Just like that. More…..A bit faster now.” Voice husky, sensual. Kesh increased suction and caressed the sensitive gland inside with light touches.

Sherlock thrust up and down slowly, moving in tandem with his hands now flying as the music blossomed in his mind. “Yes…… Fuck. Yes…..” Notes written across the canvas of the blue sky ascending, moving faster, as though spiralling towards the heavens. His hips moved roughly now as he thrust in, enjoying the slippery warmth of Kesh’s mouth. Hands came down to grab Kesh’s head holding him still. “Fucking hell. Yes…… just right. Fuck….” Body and mind chasing the imminent crescendo, eyes darting to and fro as though reading something in the clouds above.

Kesh went passive, mouth a willing vessel as Sherlock’s thrusts sped up, the balls drawn up and tense, the hands in his hair now tight and pulling, Sherlock’s mouth open as he panted.

The score reached completion in his mind at the same time as Sherlock gasped, “Fu…… Kesh…. Oh..oh…..OH! FUuuuCK.” Body arched up as warm release filled Kesh’s mouth in powerful pulses. A slow sink down. Breath leaving in short bursts as his legs sprawled apart. A satisfied groan as slick lips licked him clean. He gave a long contented sigh.

“That was _perfect_.”

Moist blue eyes looked down at Kesh.

“Come here.” A quiet murmur. Hands pulling at Kesh, “Come here, love.” He brought their lips together. A languid sweet slide of lips, a mingling of warm breaths as they shared the taste of Sherlock’s release.

“Have me,” Sherlock whispered against his lips. A gentle touching of foreheads.

“Are you sure?”

“Have me,” he repeated. Kesh smeared some more oil, slicking his already greasy hard length. Sherlock watched with sated eyes as Kesh hesitated again. They didn’t do it this way often, already set in their preferences. Which only made each time feel new, unchartered.

“Come here,” Sherlock pulled him closer, his large palms cupping Kesh’s face. “Keep your eyes on me.”

A thick head breached him, moving in ever so gently as though he were made of spun glass. Kesh was braced above, both elbows bent on the sides of Sherlock’s face. Two pairs of eyes widened as the length slid smoothly in.

“Ah….” A gasp escaped Sherlock as his eyes darted all over Kesh’s face. _Full, so fucking full. Why don’t we do it this way more often? Love the stretch. Love the awe in his eyes. After all this time he still looks like he can’t believe he is allowed this. That this is HIS to have._

He gathered Kesh close, face buried in his chest. “Give me a minute,” he murmured.

Gentle hands cradled his head, light fingers brushing back the wet locks. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s words were muffled against Kesh’s chest. “You. Only you….” He broke off, the feeling of completion, of love too intense to put into words. He looked up. A radiant smile grew as he leaned up. Soft lips grazed against the side of his mouth.

“Only me?” Kesh chuckled even as hungry eyes darted over Sherlock’s face.

“Stay.” Long legs wrapped around Kesh’s waist, strong muscles locking him in place. Sherlock’s grin turned cheeky. “Want to try something.”

He squeezed his sphincter rhythmically, in a milking motion.

“Oh God….” A harsh breath escaped Kesh as his fingers grabbed at the pillow next to Sherlock’s head. Sherlock bit his lower lip as he did it again. And again. And again. Enjoying the growing desperation on Kesh’s expressive face.

“Please, Sherlock...”

“Like it?” An eyebrow arched innocently.

Kesh huffed out a laugh. “Yes!”

Sherlock pulled him closer and rubbed their noses together playfully. “Love you.” Nipped his nose. “Enough with the teasing.” He slackened the grip of his thighs, spread them invitingly. “Go on.”

“I love you.” Kesh nuzzled against Sherlock’s cheeks. “So much…. so _much._ You are everything. _Everything_.” Tender eyes locked on to Sherlock’s as Kesh started to move.

Long, slow thrusts. Hips parted and then moved together as though slotting against each other, a perfect fit. Fingers intertwined. Moist breaths against parted lips as their bodies danced in a rhythm as old as mankind. Kesh buried his face into Sherlock’s neck as he built towards an inexorable climax slowly, steadily. Loving fingers passed through Kesh’s long locks as Sherlock held him close, whispering endearments he’d never imagined he was capable of. “I love you….. my beautiful Kesh….. You are _mine_ , aren’t you? It’s fine…. You’re not hurting me….. You can go harder. Come for me, my love. Shh…. It’s okay…. I’ve got you.” He held him close as Kesh spent himself with a quiet gasp, fingers digging into Sherlock’s arms. As Kesh came down from the high and looked down with eyes that held awe and boundless love. Sherlock cupped his face, soft lips pressing again and again to the dimples next to Kesh’s lips, his favourite among all the features of that beloved face.

“I love you,” he murmured, smiling. 

Kesh slid down slowly, his face on Sherlock’s tummy, arms spread protectively around his hips. They lay quietly, getting their breaths back. Feeling lazy. Sherlock’s fingers stroked Kesh’s hair in soothing circles as they looked at the distant snow-capped mountains, their eyes drifting close.

“I’ve finished composing. It is beautiful.”

“Hmm….”

Quietude reigned for a few moments. Then Sherlock yawned loudly. “Your come is dripping down my arse,” he complained.

“Hmm….” Kesh smiled against the flat stomach.

“These sheets need a clean.” His words sounded slurred.

Kesh laughed softly. Sherlock pulled his hair.

“I need a clean.”

Kesh licked a broad swathe of smooth skin. “Stop complaining. I’m trying to sleep.” His head bounced as Sherlock laughed. Sherlock pulled another pillow to prop up his head as he stared sleepily ahead. It was a while before he spoke.

“Each time I come back to India, the urge to stay grows stronger. I ask myself if I really want to go back….. It feels like home over here.”

When Kesh didn’t respond, he raised his head, frowning. “Kesh?”

Kesh turned around slowly till he faced Sherlock. Gentle hands caressed Sherlock’s bare chest.

“What is ‘home’, Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked at the serious tone. His eyes narrowed as he thought.

“Belonging. Safety. Acceptance.”

“So it depends on a person or a group of people. Or a situation, a place?”

The frown deepened as Kesh watched patiently.

“When you think of home in these terms, you are giving agency to the world around you. To factors outside of yourself. The surest way to misery. Because if the person is gone or you are far from your physical house or in the midst of a new situation you feel unhappy. You feel out of place, not ‘at home’.”

A thoughtful finger ran over Kesh’s sharp features absently as Sherlock thought about this.

“What else can ‘home’ mean?” Kesh urged gently.

“Happiness. Contentment,” Sherlock answered quietly.

Kesh smiled. “Ah… Contentment cannot be conferred by the outside. It is born inside of you. That is why some people can ‘feel at home’ even outside of the home. It is possible to feel at home anywhere.” His eyes were alight as he kissed Sherlock’s chest. “ _Santushtah satatam Yogi_ ,” he murmured. “A Yogi is one who has Santushti _everywhere_.”

“ _Santushti._ ” Sherlock rolled the new word around in his mouth.

“Hmm…. In simple terms it means contentment. But if you break it down in Sanskrit it means something more.”

“What?”

“Fullness. A feeling that one is full within. And _that_ is how one should be ‘at home’ no matter where or with whom he is.”

“Become fullness? How?”

“Simple. When do you feel empty?”

There was a pause as Sherlock thought. “When I feel I need something to fill me.”

Kesh nodded. “Desire. You then desire what you feel you lack. Any desire takes you away from yourself. Takes you out of the state of fullness. For a period of time you then enter the world to fulfil that desire. So you are not full, you are not content. You are not ‘at home’. Do you see?”

“ _Santushti…..”_ Sherlock’s voice trailed off. Kesh watched as Sherlock’s gaze turned inwards. He waited patiently.

When Sherlock focused on him again, he continued. “So you have to decide what you mean by home. If it is India, the people here, even me….. then you can think about staying here. But if it is a state of mind inside of you then it does not matter where you are.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful as he traced Kesh’s lips with his thumb.

 “There is a saying, ‘ _The poor man who desires nothing, owns the world!”_ Think about it. Before you make any decisions.” Kesh kissed the thumb. “Now I’d really like to take a nap in just the position I am in.”

“Hmm….” Sherlock pressed a warm palm gently over Kesh’s eyes. “Sleep.” He lay there for a while looking up at the sky before his eyes closed as well.

 

 

                                                                                ~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

** LONDON **

_Gosh it’s freezing in here_ , Molly thought as she gave a little shiver. _Need to get Stevie to adjust the thermostat again._ Placing her gloved hand gently on the forehead of the cold stiff body of the 50 year old corpse on the autopsy table she whispered gently, “I’m going to have to open your skull now. It’s standard protocol for unexplained death. Ummm….. Sorry!”

She picked up a wooden block and placed it gently under his head. Picking up a scalpel her efficient hands expertly made a cut from behind one ear to the crown of the head to the other ear. Working on autopilot now, her mind went back to the unexpected conversation she’d had with the Director of Pathology Services, Dr Larsen, the previous day.

_“Dr Hooper, your recent published papers on “Gastric mucosal lacerations following drowning” and “Post mortem radiology for penetrating trauma” have brought some much-needed recognition to the vital work that this department does. Just because Pathology is not a glamorous branch like Surgery, doesn’t mean that we aren’t damn good doctors, does it?”_

_Dr Larsen leaned forward on her desk, her hazel eyes sharp as they fixed on Molly._

_“I have some good news. The Director of Hospital Services is planning to allocate a portion of the annual Government Grant that St Bart’s attracts to our department. I suggested to him that further research on the topic of penetrating trauma and how post mortem imaging can contribute towards precise and indictable evidence without additional cost would be an appropriate area of research.”_

_She’d pursed her lips as Molly stared at her, tongue-tied._

_“Brighton and Sussex Medical School are currently also developing research in the same area. I’m proposing to send an experienced and senior pathologist to both spear-head and co-ordinate the combined efforts. And I’d like to propose your name as our candidate. You’re certainly qualified and you don’t have a family dependent on your presence in London.”_

_Molly pushed an errant lock of hair behind her ear as she looked on, heart pounding. Nothing like this had ever happened to her in her years of working at St Bart’s; she was conditioned to being overlooked repeatedly._

_Dr Larsen’s eyes were soft as she continued to explain._

_“I’d really like you to accept this position. You’d still be working a few part time hours at Bart’s but for the next two years the majority of your time will be spent in Sussex. You’d be the principal co-ordinator and decide how to proceed. It will be a big boost to your career.” She leaned back as her hands moved vaguely in the air. “Frankly, I see it as a stepping stone to bigger and better things. You’ve been stuck here doing autopsies and attending court. It is good to try new things.” She’d then elaborated the hours and precise work that would be required._

Deft hands cut through the dural reflections between the cerebrum and cerebellum and lifted the brain out. She placed the brain in a steel bowl and then on the electronic balance. Noting down the weight and external examination. She then proceeded to take slices for fixation. Her mind drifted once more to the past…. To India this time around.

 

```````````````````

 

** INDIA **

 

She had woken up early and ever so carefully slid away from the bed so as to not disturb Mrs Hudson. Coming downstairs she’d made herself a cup of tea and then carried it outside into the garden, her I-pod in the pocket of her nightie as she listened to some soothing music, a throw-rug bunched in her other hand.

Not expecting anyone else to be awake, she stopped with a sudden gasp as her eyes fell on the vision before her.

Under the large banyan tree sat Kesh.

Wearing only pajama bottoms, naked torso gleaming. Meditating. Realising that she had not actually disturbed him, Molly debated. _Should I go back in? Will he hear me? Can I stay here? Oh my God! Look at him!_ She stood rooted at the spot for a few moments and then before she knew it, her feet had carried her to the lounge chair some distance away. She sat back and sipped her tea as she looked curiously.

It was like _STILLNESS_ had taken on a human form. Chiselled body radiating peace. Beautiful sharp features in repose as long curled locks blew gently with the wind.

Molly shifted slightly to tuck her cold feet inside the throw-rug, gazing dreamily as the pre-dawn sky lit up the scattered clouds into the first muted shades of reds and oranges. Her eyes flicked back to Kesh and then back up. Then drawn back down to earth as though hypnotised she stared some more with unblinking eyes.

She’d sat there for a long time as the day dawned, listening to her music and yet aware of the birds, the wind, the changing colours of the sky above. The air smelled of the verdant wet grass, the very atmosphere as though suffused with peace.

Finally Kesh’s eyes opened. Slowly. Unfocused. Calm.

He blinked slowly as though trying to return to the world at large. She watched fascinated. Rapt. _Stunning! Is it a wonder that Sherlock fell in love with him? With THIS? Who wouldn’t?_

His eyes widened as he finally noticed her. He stood up hurriedly, apologizing as he turned his back and quietly pulled his t-shirt on. Turning back to her with a smile on his face, “Molly? I’m sorry I didn’t know you were here.”

She stood up as well, throw-rug falling to the ground. She gave a self-conscious laugh as she bent down to pick it up. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. It was….. I was just….” Her voice trailed off.

He smiled. “Do you want to go out for a little walk? We might get to see some peacocks in the wild, if we’re lucky. This is the right time for it!”

So they’d walked.

Looking out for peacocks. Periods of amiable silence alternating with periods of talking and laughing. The fresh mountain air and Kesh’s easy presence. Her tongue loosened as she talked about herself, her childhood, her work. Kesh’s firm hand steadying her as they went off the beaten path into the jungle. Snippets of dialogue made in an ostensibly desultory fashion which had then morphed into one of the most _significant_ conversations of her life- once she’d taken the time to recall and replay the words in her mind, again and again.

_It is a mistake to lead a life for someone else. One should live for oneself. Life is an opportunity for inner growth ….. Sherlock respects you. He respects the work that you do, your courage, your steadfastness. He believes in you.….. You are a specialist, aren’t you? Post-graduation in Forensic Pathology! So you are a more qualified doctor than even John…….._

_It is an atrocity to try to tame or cage a wild animal for one’s own satisfaction and pleasure. Similarly it is a grave injustice to try to pull greatness down so that it can become ordinary and relatable and less frightening. Sherlock Holmes is a great man. Let him be a great man. Enjoy the pleasure of watching him. Celebrate the fact that we belong to the select few who are found to be deserving enough to be allowed to glimpse at a great mind…….. Sherlock loves you. Just because he chooses to share time with me does not mean that you are any less significant to him……. If you want to express your love for him, do it by being the best possible YOU that you can be. And then watch his eyes light up with delight and love……._

_You are so very important to him. So integral to WHO he is…… Your unflinching un-conditional love for him is one of the key touch-stones of his life. ‘Molly loves Sherlock’, is a cardinal truth for him; one of unmeasurable solace and validation. He told me once that it is one of the **purest** things he has experienced. Please let him have that, there is no one more worthy of it. He holds the feelings you have in the highest regard, it is one of the few things he deems worthy of his deepest respect. In many ways it tempers his natural arrogance. Humbles him. _

_‘Sherlock loves Molly’ is an equally inviolable truth. Celebrate it, as I do!_

_``````````````````````_

** LONDON **

 

Molly bit her lip as she mechanically started to close the Y-incision on the man’s torso. Thinking. Churning. Savouring Kesh’s words in her mind.

“What time for lunch, Mols?”

Molly took in a sharp breath as she turned to face the petite figure of Claudia, her friend from Microbiology. She giggled.

“Sorry! I was just….. lost in thought.”

“I can see that.” Claudia stepped into the morgue. “Is this still about Sussex?”

Resuming the final stitches to the groin, Molly nodded. “Can you get my phone out of my purse? Keys in my pocket.” Claudia stepped closer and wiggled her hand underneath Molly’s apron and into her trouser pocket. “I emailed Sherlock this morning. Wanted to ask him what he thought.”

Keys in hand, Claudia rolled her eyes as she stepped towards the staff lockers. “Of course you did!” she mumbled.

“Stop it!” Molly laughed. “It is a big decision. And he wouldn’t like the thought of not having me here for post-mortems and lab work, I don’t think! I’m not sure what to do!”

Claudia rummaged through the purse. “Can you blame him? Who’d like to lose an assistant who never complains, works late, is available 24/7 at his beck and call, who worships the ground he walks on…..”

“He does NOT take me for granted. Why can’t people see that?” Molly cried out.

Claudia looked up from the phone.

“Found it!”

“Read it. Quickly!” Molly said, hands paused, needle holder and forceps hovering above the dead body.

 

**Molly. This is excellent news! In my view, it is time to move beyond what you’ve been doing for many years now. Time to seek new vistas and experiences. Kesh concurs.**

**A childhood friend of mine lives in Fulking and runs an organic farm there. He lives alone on a rather alarmingly large property and I’m sure he’d be delighted to have you as a house guest on the days you need to attend to your research and mentoring duties at Sussex. I propose to you that you consider this as an alternative to renting a flat in Sussex.**

**His name is Victor Trevor. We used to play pirates when I was a child. His name was Redbeard and mine was Yellow-beard. And I’d always win. I was always the one to take him captive! Remind him of that, would you, if he were to ever get too cocky?**

**Please let Mrs Hudson know that Meera has bought the right sized bangles for Mrs Turner.**

**Keep me posted on any developments at your end. Expect an email with Victor’s contact details soon.**

**SH.**

****

Claudia smiled indulgently as she put the phone back in the purse. “Happy now? I’ll wait in the cafeteria for you.”

Molly nodded. A radiant smile hovered on her lips as she tied the last knot on the Y-incision.

“There, all done,” she whispered gently as she covered the naked body.

 

To be contd......


	3. Chapter 3

** LONDON **

****

Sunlight filtered weakly through the blinds into the narrow galley kitchen where Mrs Hudson stood breaking eggs into a bowl.

“Is this yeast fresh?” she asked as she rummaged through the drawers for a spatula.

Mrs Turner, having begged off active culinary input citing her hip pain, sat serenely in a corner chair nodding and replying in monosyllables as she listened to the monologue. Her hands were busy knitting.

“What was I saying? Oh yes, about India! Did I tell you about the time that Vedant took me for a drive to see the local people making earthen lamps? You have to see the vivid colours to believe it! Have I shown you the photographs?”

_Dear God, Martha loves to talk,_ Mrs Turner thought fondly. Mrs Hudson chattered on. Her soft intonations filling the kitchen with life.

“I’m so sorry those bangles didn’t slide on to your wrists,” she said, looking up from whisking the eggs.

Mrs Turner snorted. “Well, I’m not going to shed weight anytime soon if you keep baking such delicious cakes and biscuits, you know?”

Mrs Hudson giggled as she leaned up to grab the flour tin.

“Don’t worry dear. I’ve asked Molly to email Sherlock and he’ll get the right sized bangles for you, you’ll see!”

Mrs Turner broke into cackles, her ample bosom jiggling as she laughed. And laughed.

“What?!”

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she finally said, “Can’t believe that Sherlock Holmes will be bringing colourful bangles for the fat lady next doors! It’s a rummy thought, that’s all! Don’t let this get out! Otherwise it’ll be like that stupid hat of his!” She burst into laughter again.

Waving the measuring cup at her, Mrs Hudson said, “Oh hush! He is such a softie! He’d do that for me in a heartbeat. His bark is worse than his bite! Likes to pretend he doesn’t care. But he’s such a softie, I tell you!” She dribbled some vanilla essence into the egg mix.  “You should have seen him there, Daphne! So happy, so open. It was like seeing a different person.”

Mrs Turner looked up from her knitting, watching her friend with affection. And bemusement. She still remembered seeing Sherlock all those years ago when he’d moved into 221B. Tall, striking looking man with the most penetrating gaze she’d ever experienced. It had taken him seconds to size her up and extend his hand courteously as he introduced himself. For some reason she’d never forgotten that first impression. Keen intelligence combined with something more fragile, vulnerable hidden underneath.

And she’d continued to watch from afar. The love that Martha had for him, amply requited. John Watson moving in next door. The tales of boredom and destroyed walls and body parts in the fridge. The scandals! Oh God, the scandals!

And then he was gone. Martha had taken it hard. And at about the same time, her own tenants, “the married ones” Martha called them, had moved across the country- new jobs, new beginnings.

So the two old ladies had mourned together. Where previously the visits had been about neighbourly courtesy, it morphed over the two years into one of close friendship. Grief and loss tying two lonely old women together.

And then he had returned! Martha was as though she had a renewed purpose in life. But things were not the same. The tales now were of drugs and drug dens, of screeching violins alternating with eerie silences. Sherlock looked different. Older, gaunt, eyes that had a tightness around them. Still a genius, but lost and lonely and….. _sad_. He had looked sad. Only when he thought no one was looking.

Yes, Daphne had watched.

And then he was gone again for a while. Only to return with a new young man, an Indian. His partner, Martha told him. Kesh. Daphne had met him a few times. So similar to Sherlock and yet so different, she thought. Where Sherlock radiated intelligence and confidence and imperiousness, Kesh was calm, thoughtful. But with the same striking _presence._

At first it hadn’t seemed fair! Martha had miraculously regained everything she’d lost, whereas she was still in the empty dismal house. But dear Martha! She’d made sure that they lost none of the essence of their friendship. Included her in every little detail. They still spent time together, still went shopping and for coffee and little walks.

She watched as Mrs Hudson started to fold the flour into the egg-mix.

“He looks ten years younger in the photos you showed me.”

“He does, doesn’t he? He looked so happy just to be there.” She turned on the oven and set the temperature and time. “I expect it is because everyone over there likes him. He’s never had that. Not really.”

“Surely that’s not true! He’s always had people caring for him.”

“Oh he’s loved, no doubt about that! Or obsessed over. Mycroft, his parents, me, Molly, John, Mary, even Lestrade cares about him. That Adler woman and that Moriarty. But he’s not really _liked_. It’s different. To be liked. To have the freedom to just be yourself. That’s new to him. This loving acceptance. He has that in Kesh. In India.”

She went quiet as she greased the tin. She put the cake mix into the oven. Washed her hands. And then sat down, a faraway look in her eyes. Daphne kept knitting, even as she watched her friend’s thoughtful face out of the corner of her eyes.

“It was horrible when he came back from the dead. Lost in his mind palace, not bothering to eat, forlorn. And the mess! Daphne, the mess!” Mrs Hudson shook her head. “But John wouldn’t talk to him, you know? Hit him when he came back and then didn’t talk to him for months. My Sherlock took it hard. And then Mary shot him. And John was kicking furniture around. Even threatened to hit Sherlock again……..”

Daphne nodded sagely. She’d heard it all before. Mrs Hudson kept talking.

 

 

 

                                                                                ~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 

** INDIA **

****

Meera leaned forward, red glass bangles clanging as she adjusted her saree to cover her heavily pregnant belly modestly. She sighed and leaned back over the pillow wedged between her back and the wooden post. Her tired eyes looked up at her husband.

“Uddhav, go. Go and join them. I know you want to.”

“I can’t. Hrishikesh has given strict instructions that I am not to leave your side.”

She sighed as she leaned back. “Bhaiyya worries too much about me.”

“They both do,” Uddhav corrected absently as his busy eyes took in the scene set up in front of him.

It was the night of Maha-Shiv-ratri--- the Great night of Lord Shiva.

Kesh had been planning to visit the small village of Chambal, twenty kilometres from Rudraprayag. He wanted to meet with Shanker’s ailing father who’d just come back home after surgery for bowel obstruction. Shankar had humbly extended an invitation for both Kesh and Sherlock to come for dinner and a night out at Chambal.

Elated that the invitation had been accepted, the entire village had sprung into action getting things ready as though it were a Royal Visit.

A visibly nervous Shankar had approached Uddhav four days ago, his hands folded humbly in Namaste and asked for some money so that he and his family could feed their Hrishikesh bhaiyya and Sherlock Sir in a manner befitting their prominence. Uddhav had handed over money, smiling at the enthusiasm. Shankar had added a request that Uddhav and Meera come early to supervise the villagers and help organize everything.

 

 

 

The villagers from Chambal and surrounds gathered together working hard to set up the only courtyard in their village; normally a place for the monthly gathering of the local council. It stood next to a small pond and the village temple. The rectangular ground was covered with blue tarpaulin for people to sit on. Garlands of fragrant flowers were threaded along the fence and around the wooden posts that held the fence wires. Water was sprinkled around, so that no dust should blow.  Mattresses and pillows and rugs were borrowed from neighbouring villages, for the elderly. Halogen lamps were arranged surrounding the ground, casting a bright glow on the entire yard. Food was being cooked on a massive scale behind the temple.

The small school and the many shops were closed as villagers all worked with enthusiasm as the day went on.

There was a rather large solitary banyan tree in the courtyard with a stone platform around it. It was decided that Sherlock and Kesh would be seated there. The elevated position would ensure that everyone could see them.

Some expert men had worked hard at making “ _Bhang_ ”- a cannabis and milk drink--it was traditional to serve it on the night of Maha-Shivratri. They ground the cannabis leaves and buds into a paste using a mortar and pestle and then rolled it into balls. They would keep the balls moist and ready for the evening. When it was time to serve they would mix it with milk, sugar and many spices, straining the resulting mixture to make a cool refreshing drink. Because of the cannabis in the drink, _Bhang_ was an intoxicant and a stimulant, as also an aphrodisiac.

 

   

 

 

Meera and Uddhav had arrived at eleven in the morning as promised. Meera had been instructing the tribal women on which dishes Kesh and Sherlock liked, which spices were too hot for Sherlock, the sweets that he liked. Uddhav was busy directing the way the ground should be set up, where to put the lights.

It was night time now, although there was a beautiful full moon in the cloudless sky. The atmosphere was still, no breeze. It was warm. The ground was abuzz with men, women and children. Chattering, shouts, laughter. People left the ground to refill their plates with snacks and their glasses with _Bhang._ It was as though a fun-fair had come to town.

Meera leaned back as she watched. Her eyes settled on Sherlock and Kesh sitting cross-legged under the tree as they ate the prepared food served in steel dishes, drank the _Bhang_ in earthen cups. As they listened and laughed and talked. Excited voices asked questions, made remarks. Her brothers took turns answering them patiently, indulgence on their faces.

“They look so perfect. They are so perfect for each other,” she whispered softly in Uddhav’s ears. He smiled, looking satisfied that everything was proceeding flawlessly.

Meera gazed on. Sherlock was wearing a black slacks and a black turtle neck t-shirt stretched tight across his chest. The contrast with his fair skin and the other-worldly silver-grey eyes was striking, to say the least! Eyes that were getting progressively more dreamy as he imbibed in the _Bhang_ with relish! Kesh was dressed casually in a grey t-shirt and torn jeans, amusement in his eyes as he watched Sherlock get slowly intoxicated.

A group of teenage village girls were sitting huddled together close to Meera and Uddhav. Dressed in their simple village finery, amateur attempts at make-up, trying to look pretty. Meera was shamelessly eavesdropping, her eyes closed, trying not to smile.

_Doesn’t he look divine?_ Sigh _. I like Hrishikesh Sir better. He is so handsome and he looks so kind, he’d be so gentle when he touched you. Hah, how can you talk about Hrishikesh bhaiyya like that? Just yesterday you were calling him brother! Never mind him, look at the foreigner. No one looks so stunning even in the foreign movies. Like a God. This is what God must look like._ Giggle _. Look at his eyes! I’d faint if he looks at me! That’s nothing! I would die!_ More giggles _. Smita, remember it is MY turn to serve the food! No way, Bhuvan uncle has already said that I am to do it……._

Meera smiled to herself. Her thoughts moved again. _It wasn’t that long ago that I was their age and thought like them! Sleeping with that film star’s photograph under my mattress and dreaming about finding my soulmate. Not so long ago that father and all the aunts were shouting at me, demanding I get dressed to ‘show’ myself to the fifty year old lecherous man in the other room; sitting there shamelessly with his children, hoping to get married to a 22 year old virgin! Not so long ago, that Kesh bhaiya walked into my life. Without a thought for propriety he had held my hand, looked into my eyes and had asked, “Do you want to get married to this man?” Not so long ago that he brought me home. Not so long ago that he handed over the keys to his house in my hand._

Her hand moved under the cover of her saree to touch Uddhav’s arm. He looked at her, eyebrows raised. _Not so long ago that I got married to this man. He welcomed me into his house and on his bed. With more dignity than I had ever imagined I’d be blessed with. And now I will give birth to his child._ She smiled and lowered her eyes shyly. She looked up at Kesh, her heart full of gratitude and reverence for the man whom she worshipped perhaps even more than God himself.

She watched, sleepy eyes sweeping over the festivities going on in front of her.

Someone asked Sherlock what he did in ‘foreign’? Kesh’s laugh was delighted as Sherlock launched into an explanation. He was a Consultant Detective and solved crimes and homicides. Everyone was discussing this excitedly. Someone stood up from the crowd and asked politely if Sherlock could share any of the crimes that he’d solved.

Sherlock nodded agreeably and had started to tell stories. Some of them so fantastical that it was hard to believe they were true! Locked room murder mysteries, finding stolen pearls, rescuing kidnapped children, serial killers! Mouths dropped open as people listened. And then many questions. Kesh leaned back, his smile so tender and loving that Meera wondered how everyone could not see it? _Kesh bhaiyya always looks calm. But this look….. it is ONLY for Sherlock bhaiyya. As though he is under a spell! As though he can’t believe his eyes!_

She watched as Kesh bent towards Sherlock and whispered something in his ears. Sherlock inclined his head till their cheeks were almost touching. He nodded and then turned to look back at the young boy who was questioning him. At his gesture both Shankar and Vedant followed Kesh into the village.

It was several minutes later that Kesh returned carrying Shankar’s elderly father in his arms. There were exclamations as several people stood up to clear a space for them to sit next to Sherlock. Kesh sat down, holding the frail body in his arms, Shankar sat near the feet of his father. Gentle hands swept back the white hair as Kesh sat and listened to Sherlock.

He said something to Vedant, who got up and left. When he returned he had a folded newspaper in his hand. One hand holding the old man’s head to his chest, Kesh started fanning him with the other using the folded newspaper. Shankar sat there, his chest bulging out as though bursting with pride. She watched as Sherlock stole glimpses when Kesh was not watching, the love in his eyes a potent living presence.

Someone suggested that they would love to have a demonstration of this ‘deduction prowess’. The crowd clapped enthusiastically. Sherlock eyes narrowed, the quirk of his eyebrow elegant and more than a bit arrogant as he nodded his acquiescence. Kesh tried to hide his smile as their eyes met. Uddhav laughed with delight next to her.

Someone pushed Pruthvi, a middle aged tailor, centre stage.

Uddhav laughed, “Dear God! Look at Pruthvi, he looks like he’s going to pee in his pants.”

Pruthvi stood in front of Sherlock, fidgeting and awkward, as sharp clinical eyes scanned him from head to toe. Then Sherlock started to talk and a hush spread over the crowd. When he stopped there was silence and then everyone started to clap, someone whistled loudly. Sherlock’s triumphant eyes swung from the applauding crowd to Kesh.

Meera’s excited grip was tight on Uddhav’s hand, “He did it! Bhaiyya did it! Isn’t he amazing?” She laughed with delight.

The atmosphere became progressively boisterous and jovial. People were laughing and eating. Challenging Sherlock. As one person after another jostled to stand in front of him and be “deduced”. Cheering him. Food and drink flowed. Sherlock’s ethereal eyes were sultry as they lingered over Kesh from time to time, gaze flicking unashamedly from Kesh’s eyes to his lips and then _lingered_. Kesh looked shy as he busied himself with talking with others.

She leaned over and whispered in Uddhav’s ears. “Maybe you should talk to Sherlock bhaiyya. Look at his eyes, like he wants to devour Kesh bhaiyya!”

Uddhav shushed her. “Are you crazy? You want me to talk to Sherlock about such things?”

He looked around to check no one was within hearing range. He bent closer and whispered. “You do know that _Bhang_ is an aphrodisiac!” His eyes moved down to her protruding belly. “I would have loved to have some, if not for………”

Meera flushed as she looked down, embarrassed.

Someone gestured towards Sherlock’s empty _Bhang_ glass.

One of the teenage girls in the group next to her jumped up and ran up to the area behind the temple. She came back with a jug full of _Bhang_. She approached Sherlock, eyes wide. Sherlock was ‘deducing’ one of the men, who stood grinning as incisive eyes swept over him. Just as she bent down to pour the _Bhang,_ Sherlock eyes flicked up at her. Her hand started to shake visibly. Just when it seemed to everyone that the jug would surely fall down, Sherlock extended his hand and held her shaking wrist, steadying her.

“Careful,” he said in his deep voice.

He took the jug from her and poured both him and Kesh a refill before handing the jug back to her with a kind smile.

Meera watched as the young girl almost ran back, face flushed, breathless, her hand encircling her wrist. She listened in as the girl was welcomed back excitedly by her friends. Muted exclamations and excited whispers as they pulled at her, touching her. _Oh My God! He touched you! You lucky thing! How did it feel? What is his grip like? Firm or soft? Are his hands warm? Are they smooth or calloused? Can I touch?_

Meera grinned as she nudged Uddhav, who was also listening and struggling not to laugh.

An area was cleared in front of the platform as a group of young men offered to do a folk-dance they’d been practicing for four days. They danced to the rhythm of the drums and the clapping crowd, performing their hearts out for the guests of honour. Sherlock sat on the platform, his legs swinging from the edge, his head bobbing in tandem with the rhythm. He started clapping along with the crowd.

After the dance ended, one of the young men put on some trendy Bollywood music on the loud speaker. The younger folk started dancing to the rhythmic bass beats, uncoordinated and exuberant.

“Look at Sherlock bhaiyya,” Meera exclaimed as she pointed an excited finger.

Someone had coaxed Sherlock down to the ground. He was dancing!

Long legs moving in perfect sync with the music. His hands moving fluidly in the air as his body undulated gracefully. Thick lush hair bounced as his head swung side to side, his blue-green eyes flashing with joy. Opalescent skin gleamed in the halogen light, black fabric stretched tight across his body. Arms rose to his sides as he executed the perfect twirl, t-shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of creamy skin above his black slacks.

The vigorously dancing bodies around him stopped as they parted like the sea to give Sherlock centre-stage. A palpable thrill rippled through the watching crowd. There were excited cheers as people egged him on. Loud whistles. Many were sitting with gaping mouths as they nudged each other, unable to believe their eyes.

Meera sat stunned, her hand covering her open mouth.

“Oh, God! I can’t believe it! He is so graceful. So beautiful!”

Kesh adjusted Shankar’s father’s head on a pillow as he stood up. Delighted eyes followed every last one of Sherlock’s moves as he stood with arms crossed across his chest. He shook his head and laughed, his dimples flashing with joy as Sherlock beckoned.

“Come and join us, Kesh,” Sherlock yelled out.

“I’ll watch,” replied Kesh shaking his head again. He looked mesmerized as he stood and stared. A big smile on his face.

At Sherlock’s behest some of the more skilful of the dancers joined him. The music became more energetic. The moves became exuberant. Sherlock was dancing in the midst of many villagers; elegance in ecstatic motion.

Meera sneaked a glance at the group of teenage girls next to her. Like her, they stood there with their mouths open in varying degrees, clutching each other’s hands, squealing. _Oh God! I think I’ve died and gone to heaven! I would do anything for him._ Sigh _. Why would he look at me? He’s so perfect. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my whole life._ _I’d marry him right now even if father says no!_ She felt like she could _feel_ it inside her; the rapidly beating hearts, the gasps of wonder, the fantasies, the yearning.

She watched Uddhav out of the corner of her eyes. His eyes were swinging between Sherlock’s graceful form and Kesh’s adoring eyes. He looked down at Meera, a smirk on his face and whispered, “We need to get them home, for goodness sake!”

Meera nodded, grinning.

It was a while later that the music stopped and people broke up into groups, talking and laughing. Sherlock strolled up to Meera and Uddhav. He came and stood next to Uddhav on the steps leading to the temple. Vedant followed him like a bodyguard, puffed up with importance.

Sherlock was still a bit breathless, each raspy breath puffing curls away from his forehead. Meera looked up from the ground taking it all in-- eyes that were radiant from the revelry, chest moving in and out, his t-shirt stretched and now stained with patches of wetness, beads of sweat glistening on his flushed fair skin, like dew drops glowing on the velvet expanse of a rose petal. She smirked as she watched the lascivious look in his eyes as they moved over Kesh, his tongue running over his lower lip absently.

“I’m going out for a smoke,” he said to Uddhav.

He turned to Vedant, “Get me a light.” Vedant nodded eagerly and set off to find a light.

Uddhav nodded. “Sherlock, if you and Kesh don’t need us anymore, I’d like to take Meera home. She’s exhausted and we have to leave early tomorrow to see the doctor.”

Sherlock’s gaze was fond as he looked down at Meera. “Go! I’ll tell Kesh. We’ll see you at the hospital tomorrow.”

“Sherlock bhaiyya?”

“Yes, Meera?”

Meera held her pregnant tummy gingerly as she bent forward. She touched her forehead to Sherlock’s naked feet.

“Bless me, bhaiyya,” she said.

She bent forward again and repeated the gesture. “And this is for Kesh bhaiyya. I don’t want to disturb him.”

Sherlock’s expression transformed into a look of such tenderness that her eyes widened. He stepped down the three steps and went down on one knee. Two large hands cupped her face as he leaned forward to press soft lips on her forehead. “This is from Kesh,” he murmured quietly. He kissed her again. “And this is from me.” He smiled. “We’ll be there tomorrow, bright and early.”

“Promise?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

 

To be contd.......


	4. Chapter 4

** LONDON **

****

****

Mycroft leaned forward on his desk and rubbed his weary eyes with his palms. He sighed. The work had piled up in his absence, all manner of policies and plans awaiting either his input or approval. India already seemed to be a dream as reality took over. He’d been on the go for nearly twelve hours now. He was tired, he was hungry, he was curiously…… _dissatisfied_!

He let out another long sigh as he flicked his mobile on. His fingers moved deftly, eyes looking once again at photographs he’d clicked whilst on holiday in India. Sherlock laughing, his teeth gleaming in the afternoon sun, eyes crinkled with suppressed joy. Kesh with a giggling Rosa on his lap as Sherlock made a funny face. Mary, Molly and Mrs Hudson wearing sarees, sitting in Kesh’s garden. Sherlock sitting on the river bank, his arm around Molly’s shoulder. John looking tipsy, holding up a finger as he talked to Kesh.

He looked up as Anthea entered his office.

“Thomas is waiting in the car, Sir,” she said as she looked down at the lowered phone and back up to his pensive face. “Is everything okay?”

Mycroft pursed his lips as he stared ahead.

“I don’t know.” He was silent for a few more moments.

“Sir?” Anthea prodded.

Finally he stood up, his voice sombre as he mused aloud. “All my life I’ve struggled to find order in the midst of chaos. To mould events towards what I deemed was the most desirable outcome.” He went quiet as he put on his suit jacket.

Anthea stared at him. “And now?”

He stared at the desk, thoughtful. “Now, I’m not so sure that it makes a difference. At a fundamental level. In a meaningful way. I find myself questioning whether I want to be doing this anymore. Is it truly worthy of my time and intellect? Politics and manipulation. Intrigue and duplicity. Subservience to the realm in the name of patriotism. I seem to have lost sight of what should be important.”

He pulled up a photograph on his mobile and showed it to Anthea. Kesh’s head on Sherlock’s lap as he lay under a tree, Sherlock’s outstretched hand pointing at something far away.

“Sherlock knew. He always knew. It was better to be a lonely eagle soaring high above the earth, glorious in its majesty and isolation than being the alpha lion leading a pack of miserable rats and hyenas. Even as a child, he was clear about this.” He switched off the phone and put it in his pocket. “And now he’s found a worthy playmate to fly with him. For which I am deeply grateful.”

She hesitated, her voice softer when she finally spoke.

“Is this because of India?”

He drew a long breath as though coming back to himself.

“Funny sort of place, India,” he murmured. “Does things to one. Raises questions but expects you to look for answers yourself. Makes you question everything you thought you’d already figured out.” He picked up his briefcase and pulled his umbrella out of the stand.

“Good night.” He nodded.

Anthea watched his straight back, umbrella swinging as he walked out towards the waiting car. She stood there frowning, thoughtful.

A few moments later, Mycroft leaned back against the rich leather interior of the car and reminisced some more.

 

                                                                ```````````````````````````

 

** INDIA **

 

It had been an unusually warm summer evening in India. Everyone else had left to partake in some manner of local festivities. Mycroft had begged off, the need to have a peaceful evening in lieu of company had proven too alluring.

Alone in the empty house, he’d chosen to spend time on the third floor in Kesh’s study. A lover and connoisseur of both reading and books, it was the one thing he’d wanted to do prior to departing from India.

At first, he’d roamed around the large room, comfortably furnished like the rest of the house, just taking in the multitude of books in the bookshelves that lined all the walls. Eyes darting to get a feel for the collection, he made note of the titles; books on academic physics, quantum physics, mathematical theories, cosmology and spirituality. He frowned as he took another tour around, this time touching and pulling out to have a look before replacing; this was not an eclectic collection randomly assembled. It was the collection of a discerning and focused mind. The books were not in pristine condition; many were frayed, bookmarked, the binding just barely holding them together.

He started to pull books out seemingly at random, keen eyes flicking through pages as he browsed. Time lost meaning as he gradually sank into the atmosphere of being transported into another world; a world of pure knowledge where mundane matters ceased to be of significance.

It was more than an hour later that he settled down in the comfortable armchair by the large desk which was the centrepiece of the room. The desk lamp cast a warm light on the smooth fine grain of the polished wood of the desk. Finally he pulled the single book on the desk towards himself; a book given the pride of place in the centre; hardbound ancient cover, the yellowed wrinkled pages held together by a single tape made of finely etched leather.

It was evidently a well-loved, frequently handled book; evidenced by its condition and the copious notes made in the generous blank spaces on each page as well as the margins. Words written in black, blue and red, some cancelled, some underlined and triple underlined……Mycroft frowned as he tried to make sense of what he was reading.

He turned back to the front page and ran long reflective fingers over the book title--- _Bhagavad Gita_. Underneath were words written in Devanagari script- Sanskrit perhaps? Frowning he powered on the desk-top computer, smirking slightly when he realised it was not password-protected.

He hesitated for a moment and then typed into the search engine--- _Bhagavad Gita._

And then spent the next several minutes going from webpage to webpage, busy eyes skimming, sharp mind whirring as he read.

It was a few minutes before he heard footsteps climbing the stairs.

He smiled as he looked up at Kesh and moved to stand up.

Kesh waved him back, dark eyes flashing with delight as he glanced from the book under Mycroft’s hand to his face. He sat down on the chair at the opposite side of the desk.

“I see that you’ve kept occupied in our absence,” he said mildly.

Mycroft settled back into his chair, “I have indeed. I quite enjoy going through book collections. It’s a clue to the owner’s mind, I often say.” He waved vaguely at the bookshelves, “Yours, I must admit is somewhat of a surprise.”

“Why?”

“I had expected a more diverse interest,” Mycroft shrugged. “This is limited to two broad topics only.”

Kesh’s voice was soft as he corrected, “One.”

An eyebrow rose in inquiry as Mycroft repeated, “One?”

Kesh’s smile was mischievous as he answered obliquely, “I prefer knowledge to the gathering of information.”

Mycroft looked thoughtful as he tilted his head slightly, unfocused eyes staring at the ceiling as he tried to parse through the meaning of Kesh’s words. It was a game they played increasingly deftly and with ever greater enjoyment; time had sought to erode boundaries between them and make speech to a large part, superfluous. Kesh wielded his words with the churlishness of a miser, but Mycroft understood that it was not with the aim to obfuscate, rather an encouragement to analyse for oneself.

They sat in silence for a while before Mycroft looked back at Kesh. “I don’t believe in the concept of God, Kesh. I’m an atheist, I’m afraid.”

Kesh’s eyes sparkled. “You’re an atheist. Sherlock identifies himself as an agnostic. Do you really think the Universe cares about your opinion?”

Taken aback, Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “And you? What do _you_ identify as? Do you believe in God?” Mycroft asked, his voice taking on an edge of defiance.

Kesh’s answer was immediate; sharp, challenging and on point.

“Define God.”

Mycroft leaned forward, a dozen answers hovering on his lips; eloquent descriptions fighting for primacy as they accelerated to the finish line--- thoughts that were parsed and then discarded as his lightening fast brain worked. _No, no, not this, not this, not adequate, not comprehensive, conditioned response, not this…._

Kesh sat calmly, observing the play of intense concentration and increasing frustration on Mycroft’s face.

It was a while before Mycroft finally conceded. “Touché.”

Kesh inclined his head in acknowledgement and then stood up. He walked up to the window looking outside at the Himalayan peaks in the distance and stood in quiet contemplation, staring into the distance.

It was a while before he mused softly, “We are like ants living on a small piece of rock that orbits a mediocre star at the periphery of a mediocre galaxy in the vastness of the Cosmos. And pretend that we know the Truth, debate the utterly man-made anthropomorphic concept of God, fight wars over the superiority of _my_ God over your God.” He sighed and shook his head. “It makes no sense, this endless discussion using limited words to describe **_that_** which is limitless.”

He was silent for a while. Then, a solemn intonation.

“This is how the sages described it-- _From where speech returns along with the mind, not having understood it. That is the Absolute._”

A shiver ran through Mycroft. His voice was a soft murmur, unwilling to break the profound contemplative silence that Kesh seemed to be wrapped in.

“Then why seek it? Why embark on something in which one is likely to fail?”

“Because every moment that you spend _seeking_ , you are joyful and at peace. And because the world is undeserving of both attachment and fidelity.” There was a finality in Kesh’s voice.

The soft glow of the lamp fell in a wide circle of the desk. The sharp aristocratic features on Kesh’s face were thrown partly into shadows, the expression on the usually expressive face now closed off as Mycroft looked at him in silence.

He was suddenly reminded of something that Sherlock had told him once. “ _Don’t get taken in with the mild exterior, Mycroft. Kesh is a ruthless man. You and I like to imagine that we are clinical, above it all. But Kesh is terrifying in his objectivity. Don’t be fooled.”_

He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, hands interlaced under his chin as he hesitated to speak. It was a while before he broke his silence, misgivings swept aside for now, the urge to vocalize too strong.

“It frightens me,” he admitted.

Kesh turned his face partly towards him, head inclined in encouragement.

“Delving into that which is insolvable. The Spiritual quest,” Mycroft elaborated.

Kesh stayed quiet for a few moments longer.

“It should frighten you. Given the nature of the Spiritual quest and where it leads, true seekers are few. Impostors many.”

“But you inspire me. I look at you….. and I want to learn, to _know_.” It would take the most discerning of minds to note the barest trace of a plea in his voice.

Finally Kesh turned around and leaned back against the window-sill, folding his hands across his chest. His face was solemn, his words measured as he said in a quiet voice, “Then learn. What is stopping you?”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “You’ve been guiding and teaching Sherlock. Would you do me the honour of guiding me?”

Their eyes locked in a gaze of intensity; one calm and assessing, the other hopeful and trusting.

“No,” was the short answer when Kesh finally spoke.

Mycroft looked taken aback, his expression discomfited as he exclaimed, “ _Why?_ ”

Kesh dropped his hands as he walked up to the desk and sat once again on the chair across Mycroft.

“Your brother, for all his show of disdain and hubris, is still a man who will excel with a companion on the journey. You….” Kesh looked into Mycroft’s startled eyes, “You on the other hand will only ever trust the conclusions of your mind. It will be counterproductive for you to learn from another, no matter the level of trust.”

“You’ve thought about this!” Mycroft frowned. “About Sherlock and I?”

“It’s my role,” Kesh said simply.

His gaze was kindly as he looked at Mycroft who sat with his brow furrowed, struggling to keep the disappointment off his face, a thousand questions at bay.

Kesh leaned forward, “I can give you a head start though.”

“How?” Mycroft asked.

Kesh’s hand moved forward and tapped the book under Mycroft’s hand. “By giving you this. It was a gift from my Guru in Harsil and has been a constant companion since I was fifteen. Take it with you when you return to London.”

Eyebrow arched, Mycroft gathered the book in his hands, looking down at it. “I looked it up. An ancient Hindu religious text, is it not?”

The loud chuckle echoed in the quiet dark room. “Wrong. Wrong on all four counts.”

Both eyebrows rose in astonishment, “How so?”

Kesh’s voice was soft, his words deliberate, “It is not ancient. It is timeless. It has nothing to do with Hinduism or religion. And it is not a text.”

Mycroft stared at the book for a few moments, then looked up to meet intent incisive eyes.

“Then what is it?” he asked, voice suddenly urgent.

“A cipher.”

Mycroft’s gaze sharpened, “And where is the key?”

Kesh’s gaze was calm, his tone that of a man speaking an eternal truth.

“Embedded within the cipher.”

“Then how do I get the key? Decipher the cipher?” he demanded.

“Apply your intellectual prowess. And when that is stretched to its limits, you surrender to it. When the surrender happens, the Gita will herself hand you the decryption key.”

Mycroft’s eyes flicked again and again all over Kesh’s face and the book under his hands. The silence grew; not an uncomfortable pause, rather a moment of quietude between a massive brain applying itself to breaking point and a contemplative mind capable of infinite patience when required.

Mycroft’s hand twitched as he grasped the book tightly. The question when he finally asked it seemed to have been wrenched out of him. 

“And what will the effort bring me? What will I learn?”

Kesh leaned forward, arms on the desk, his eyes boring into Mycroft’s. His tone was sheer emphatic _power._

“ ** _Everything._** ”

Goose bumps rose along Mycroft’s body as the word sank in, mouth suddenly dry. He sank back down as he finally lifted the book and looked at it.

_Everything._

 

```````````````````````````

 

** LONDON **

 

“We’ve arrived, Sir.” Thomas’s voice penetrated Mycroft’s reverie.

“Thank you, Thomas. And goodnight,” Mycroft said as he climbed out and went into his home.

It was an hour later, having had dinner and a shower that Mycroft ventured into his study, a tumbler of Napoleon brandy in one hand and the book in the other.

He laid the book on his study desk, flicked on the lamp and sat down. Gentle fingers stroked the embossed letters on the cover as he whispered to himself, “ _Everything._ ”

He opened the book, keen eyes reading Kesh’s notes as he flicked the pages.

_Free will. Freedom to do what? ~~Outer battle~~. Inner war? Who am I fighting? What are my weapons? The unreal can never be. The real can never be negated. Not this. Then what? Happiness binds. How? Actions culminate into knowledge. But doesn’t knowledge come before action? What is knowledge?  What is action? How can I act without desire? Yoga is being yoked. Yoked to what? ~~God?~~ To whom? Remembrance comes from It. Remembrance of what? Memories? Waking, dreaming and deep sleep. What is constant in all three? I AM. What is this ‘I AM’?_

His thoughts halted as he came across an intriguing passage. Fingers stroked over the bright red print of Kesh’s pen. Words underlined, cancelled, caps-locked. The handwriting increasingly frustrated, the pen nib had gone clear through the page in a couple of spots.

_Body is the field. Which body? ~~Physical~~ …..WHO is the Knower of the field? Knowledge, knowable, known. Which one am I? WHO AM I???_

He sat lost in deep thought. After a while, he leaned forward and grabbed his pen. Unscrewing the cap with one hand, he paused, frowning. A deep breath. He started making his own notes.

 

 

                                                                                ~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 

** INDIA **

****

It was later……..

As Sherlock relinquished the tight hold on himself in the privacy of their bedroom and unleashed his pent-up hunger……

As they knelt on the bed, Sherlock’s thighs bracketing Kesh’s faintly trembling ones; Kesh’s sweat-slick back sliding over Sherlock’s chest as Sherlock pushed into him again and again as he sought the welcoming heat at Kesh’s core; as one proprietary large palm was splayed over Kesh’s chest, both anchoring the body he was invading and monitoring the helplessly pounding heart underneath the ribcage; as Sherlock buried his face into Kesh’s neck, mouth open as he groaned seductively into Kesh’s ears; as small rivulets of sweat trickled down from his forehead to his temple to the angle of his jaw before splattering over Kesh’s naked chest; as Sherlock pulled and worried sensitive nipples with abandon;

As the loud sound of skin slapping against skin added to the eroticism of their coupling, Sherlock taking his fill with impunity; as Kesh melted back into Sherlock, unable to control the helpless moans; as Sherlock gasped at intervals, “So good. You feel fucking fantastic….I could have you all night…. _You are mine_ , Kesh…. ”; as the fingers of Kesh’s right hand dug desperately into Sherlock’s thigh as he answered in a broken voice, “Yours…. Love you…. Sherlock”; as Kesh arched his left hand back into soft luxurious curls and pulled as he tried valiantly to stay upright and in the position Sherlock needed him to be; as Sherlock hissed at the pain in his scalp and knee, the circuit now complete, pain acting as a perfect counterpoint to the inexorably building pleasure in his groin as he fucked into Kesh, heavy balls slapping relentlessly against Kesh’s arse; as his lust-addled brain chased release into the willing body of the man he loved……

It was later…. much later…….

As Kesh turned his face and begged against Sherlock’s naked shoulder, “Please…..”; as Sherlock whispered against the wet forehead, “Shhhh…….I’ve got you. Love you, Kesh,” and finally took Kesh’s hot turgid length in his hands and started stroking; as Sherlock emptied himself in tandem with the pulsing of the cock in his hand; as they slumped against each other, desire finally sated, bodies limp and breath gasping after the frenzied mating……

It was later…. Much, much later…….

As Sherlock lay across the bed, head resting on Kesh’s chest; his nose bumping against one peaked dark nipple every time he smiled; as long fingers drew delicate circles over Kesh’s chest; as they talked and yawned and then laughed and then talked some more; as they looked at each other with eyes filled with love and tenderness; as fingers laced together they moved as one to kiss and caress the other’s lips……

It was later….. much, much, much later……..

As Sherlock sat on a chair just inside the wide open French windows, outstretched naked legs crossed at the ankles, covered in only a sheet, his hands folded in the familiar steeple below his chin;  as he gazed way way beyond at the full moonlight reflected on the snow-capped Himalayan peaks in the distance and turning them into a surreal white-grey haze; as he turned periodically to look back at the sleeping form of Kesh, face both peaceful and vulnerable, long locks blowing slightly in the gentle breeze;

As finally he stopped thinking and allowed himself to just _be_ for a moment; as an upsurge of emotions engulfed him in waves upon waves of gratitude and love and _FULLNESS_ ; as his eyes smarted with a feeling of well-being so _profound_ that he did not quite know how to process it.

It was then that Sherlock finally realised the meaning of Kesh’s words earlier in the day.

_Santushti._

Home. He was _home._

 

                                                                                                                                     ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

**To the readers of Santushti-- My humble Namaste :)**

 

As I have mentioned in the blurb, I am planning a proper sequel to Moksha. I anticipate that with what I have to say, it will be a long one.

I wrote Santushti because I wanted to get back into the mindset of Moksha. To come out of the intensity of “Culmination” and my righteous fury in “My Brother’s Keeper.” To reacquaint myself with the characters and the rhythm of Moksha. The purpose has been served and I DO feel ready!

And to my delighted surprise Santushti has turned out to be absolutely adorable! I will re-live this perfect day in Kesh and Sherlock’s life in my mind over and over on a loop :)

I would like to share something with all of you. I had not planned to write any end-notes because there was no hidden metaphor in the story. But when I started to post it, I realised something. If you remember, in the end notes of Moksha I wrote this—

_“_ _Moksha begins with the word “Sherlock” and ends with the word “Hrishikesh”—ultimately that is what the journey is--- Sherlock reaching his Kesh. And in our allegory, Me reaching my Higher Self.”_

It had of course been deliberate to write Moksha that way!

But when I went to post this last chapter I realised that without having planned it, this had happened- the first word of Santushti was “ _Hrishikesh_ ” and the last word is “ _Home_ ”. I got sudden goose bumps when I realised this! I find it incredible and felt like I just HAD to share this!

Thank you for your support. For leaving comments. I ask that you continue to support me when I embark on the sequel. It will give me the enthusiasm to write. I was thinking the other day, while cooking for my family, that writing fan-fiction is a bit like cooking. Let me explain. Cooking can be a pleasure all by itself. But when you know that there is someone at the other end who is hungry for the food, the pleasure of cooking multiplies. You want to make the food better, want to try new things, want to decorate the plate, there is an eagerness in an otherwise mundane task. When that person who is now eating the food you cooked, smacks their lips and makes “Yum-yum” noises, the pleasure goes through the roof! You want to cook for that person again and again. Whereas if you’re cooking just for yourself, the thought occurs, “Is it worth it? Maybe I should just have a banana and a glass of milk.”

Each time you comment, you are being that gracious hungry person, who is unafraid to share their excitement at the food served and eager anticipation of the food yet to come. I hope that made sense!

Thank you again :))


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